


hold me now, warm my heart (stay with me)

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Off-screen death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a letter in the mail that could possibly destroy everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me now, warm my heart (stay with me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherolck](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sherolck).



> First. Fic. In. 9. Months.
> 
> First off, I am so sorry. I have no words about how poor I have been keeping up updates. I promise two chapters of Too Late in quick concession! (Just some Sherlockian character tweaks, S3 really messed up how Sherlock works in this universe)
> 
> So, have this. I promise to update more often. I will, I will!

The day began normally.

It’s actually sunny, and fairly warm. John walked out of 221b before Sherlock had even stirred. He’d fallen asleep in his chair again, which means he’d want his back fixed when John got home.

John goes to Speedy’s for breakfast. He has two cups of tea, and reads the newspaper in silence. For once, he skips the obituaries and reads straight onto the football.

He goes to Tesco. Tonight’s dinner was Sherlock’s choice, and he wanted chicken something or other. Sounded far too pompous and French when he said it. They needed milk again, as usual, and John wanted a new type of juice to help with his weight loss. He talked idly with the cashier, who was a fan of his blog, and went home leisurely.

He’d expected a text from Sherlock at least, but his phone was unforgivably silent.

When he unlocked the door to the flat, there was already mail on the doormat. John put a shopping bag down to pick it up. The envelope was stark white, and his name was printed in clear letters on the front. He flipped it over, not recognizing the return address.

This is army grade, he told himself. This is what they send to the families of someone who has been killed in the army.

In the confusion, he opened the letter. He took his time, ripping it slowly. He had no family in the army, he was the only one. Why is there alarm bells ringing?

He pulled out the letter. It was the same army white as the envelope.  It was folded so cleanly, the professional tri-fold. John opened the folds slowly, his hands beginning to shake. There was no noise except the rustling of the paper, and the slight increase of fear in John’s breathing.

He reads.

**In case of my death, please be sure this letter finds it’s way to Captain John Watson.**

**If anyone, especially John is reading this, then I am dead. By either my own hands or someone else’s, I have been declared dead.**

**John, I wish to apologize for the hurt this will cause you. We were close, lovers and best friends. I want you to realize that I love you still, even if the burden was too much to bear. You know this now, but my wish is still for you to find happiness.**

**I don’t want a funeral. I find peace knowing that you, John, are reading this and I want to be buried with that thought and none of that over-priced church riddled stuff.**

**-** **James Sholto, (former) Major. 2008.**

Blindly, unseeing, with his eyes hot and misty, John read a scrawled note that sat at the end of the letter. His heart was too loud in his ears.

**When you try to hold on for too long, these things get to you. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer, John. I will always love you, sincerely. Don’t let anyone pass like I let you.**

John was on the ground before he knew what had happened. His legs no longer held him. His hands were shaking so much he couldn’t hold the letter. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. It was like being shot all over again; it was like watching the news and hearing about James’ accident. Except this was final. James was dead, had done it and killed himself.

Tears were on his cheeks. His brain wasn’t function correctly, and his heart hurt. _Why did that happen?_

He inhaled sharply, and the exhale was a sob. He wiped his eyes quickly, and his hands were overtaken by tremors.

James was gone. He never truly got to reform their relationship, their friendship, properly. He’d meant to stay in contact. He had always played their break-up over and over in his head, and told himself he would fix it. He was a doctor, a man whose duty it was to fix what was broken. But he never did.

Then he met Sherlock. Sherlock distracted him from James, mostly. Some things Sherlock said were direct mirrors of words James had said before he left to go back to London. And so he never wrote, and never made to fix anything.

Then Sherlock died. And John considered. He replayed the break-up every night, through writing Sherlock’s eulogy and trying his hardest not to see blood. He searched for James, but he was off the grid. That’s when he asked Mycroft, who had obliged without a word. He received the contact information, but he never tried. He couldn’t.

And then there was Mary. He married her, and James was there. They talked, and John still loved him and he could see James’ emotions clear in his eyes but he was married and then there was the unresolved problem with Sherlock. Then he saved James’ life, and their contact resumed. He’d seen James’ new living quarters. They were quite charming. They drank, talked of Mary and Sherlock, and they were friends again.

But then it stopped. John and Mary divorced. James never returned calls, or emails. And now he is dead. Gone.

_Don’t let anyone pass like I let you._

John left the letter on the floor. His eyes were burning. He half-limped up the stairs. Sherlock, who peered at him from the lounge and saw the tears, met him. He was on his feet instantly.

“John?” his voice was frantic, but far away. _Why won’t the tears stop? He’s a soldier. Strength is his virtue. Why is he still crying?_

“It’s, uh,” his voice cracked. He tried again. “It’s James.”

“Sholto?” Sherlock’s hands hovered against John’s shoulders. He was warm. Warm and worried.

“Yeah. He committed suicide,” John couldn’t see anything past the mist, the approaching darkness of depression and memories.

Sherlock’s next words were slow and carefully chosen. “And you’re… Regretful.”

“Fuck yeah I am,” John answered in anger. He wasn’t angry with Sherlock. He wasn’t even angry with James. He was angry at the world for letting them leave each other in the first place. “He was something, Sherlock. He was the boulder I needed.”

Sherlock sat him down. One hand lay on his knee, comforting. That wasn’t like Sherlock. John sniffed, and wiped his eyes again. Sherlock was gazing at him, eyes open.

“Did he know that you still loved him?”

“I goddamn hope so,” John said. God, it all hurt. He sniffed again.

“What do we need to do? What preparations are needed? Let me help you, John,” Sherlock was so nice, and this was all apart of his newfound character. It was like flowers and ash in his mouth all at once.

“Nothing. This isn’t a wedding, Sherlock,” John’s anger failed him. His chest hurt. His hands shook. He was surprised his leg still worked. “Besides, he just wanted to be buried. No funeral. No get together. He’s always been like that.”

Sherlock’s fingers were rubbing John’s knee now. He understood. There was silence before Sherlock asked again.

“What do you need me to do?” So helpful, Sherlock. _Where was this sudden care coming from?_

“I need you to make me a promise.”

“John, you know that promises mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. They are weightless, pointless words that--”

“Don’t you ever leave me again, got it?”

Sherlock shut up instantly. His hand stopped moving, then wasn’t on his knee at all. He stood up, moving from John.

“Perhaps this isn’t something you wish to discuss now… You’re in a state of shock-”

“He told me something. James. Don’t let anyone pass like I let you. He broke up with me, you know that? The night after my bullet removal he broke up with me. Said he couldn’t deal with knowing that he wasn’t the best for me, that he could never be good for me. He let me pass. I don’t want that to be you.”

“John,” Sherlock was watching him. There was too much space between them.

“I lost you. Remember that? You jumped off a building to go on a real suicide mission, and then my bloody wife shot you and you neglected to tell me you were clinically dead. So, Sherlock, I need you to know this. Because my fucking…” The words wouldn’t come. Sherlock was breathing hard. The space was gaping. “My friend is dead, and I loved him. And I love you and you two are… So alike. Each other. He said so, you said so. And I love you and you need to know because I can’t…let you pass.”

The silence that followed was thick, pregnant with stress and tension. John had bared all, something he hardly did no matter how he felt. Sherlock was looking at him. Just looking.

“Then don’t.”

Sherlock’s answer would have been a shock at any other time. But James was dead, he didn’t fix that but he could fix the void between he and Sherlock and he needed that now.

“Then come here and kiss me and make this day a little less terrible”

The sadness shrunk minutely when Sherlock met his lips. It wasn’t earth shattering, but Sherlock was kissing him and it was all John needed. _All he needed was to not let Sherlock go anymore._

When he woke from the nightmare of James, Sherlock was there, all muscle and soothing love and John couldn’t and wouldn’t let him pass.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my friend Kim for being my fast and easy beta for this story, which came from another round of angsty Jolto posts (that I started, mind you). 
> 
> I am on tumblr: trickortrevor.tumblr.com
> 
> The post that inspired this fic: http://royaltenenbaums.co.vu/post/99034010370/johnlockery-tbh-a-happy-ending-for-sholto-would


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